


A tie that binds

by dailandin



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Credence is just confused, Fluff and Humor, Graves is a Troll, M/M, Magical Bond, Mistaken Identity, Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-06
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2019-01-09 19:49:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12283221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dailandin/pseuds/dailandin
Summary: According to the street orphans who frequent the Church, there is a ritual that will summon a demon from the depths of Hell, who will then grant the summoner three wishes of their choosing.Desperate to escape from the abuse he suffers at the hands of his adoptive mother, Credence tries the supposedly magical ritual. No one is more shocked than him when it actually works.(Alternatively: Percival Graves just wants to get to work)





	A tie that binds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [almostannette](https://archiveofourown.org/users/almostannette/gifts).



> Fic written for the Gradence Trick or Treat Halloween Fest, Prompt 4:
> 
> "Credence is desperate enough to try a supposedly magical ritual he’s heard of (a bit like those “stand in front of the mirror and chant Bloody Mary three times”-rituals) and on Hallowe'en, he does the ritual and asks for help. He’s very surprised when the ritual works and summons a magical being in the form of a very handsome man!"
> 
> I believe I ended up taking this in a slightly different direction than expected. Sorry. I suck at horror and mystery, so have a Halloween-inspired fluffy comedy instead!

Ma banished Billie Johnson from the church when she found out. _I will not have such heresy spoken about within these walls_ she had declared, face twisted into a rictus of righteous fury, as she dragged poor Billie by the ear and threw him, ass-first, into the muddy streets.

Fear of sharing Billie’s same fate would have usually dissuaded the street kids from ever mentioning his tales again, but the temptation proved to be too big, the tale too juicy, and it was not long before Annabelle McCullan, Donnie Price and Dorothy Lynch found themselves out on the streets as well, stomachs empty and mouths full of soap.

That had put a temporary stop to the whispers, and the following Sunday all kids had been uncharacteristically quiet and obedient as they waited in line for their ration of bland watered-down soup with soggy bread. Credence had breathed a discreet sigh of relief, naively thinking the whole issue to be already over and forgotten about.

How foolish he had been.

He made the grave mistake of underestimating both Ma’s fanaticism and children’s resilient stupidity. The very next week he happens upon two boys whispering excitedly while waiting in queue to collect their pamphlets. They are not even bothering to try and be discreet, their giggles carrying loud and clear across the small atrium of the church. Lucky for them, Ma is absent that morning, leaving Credence and Chastity to manage the distribution of pamphlets. Had Ma been there, she would not have hesitated one second to slap them in the mouth for daring to say such profanities in the House of the Lord, right before kicking them in the ass and out in the street.

Credence is made of kinder stock. He quietly signals for Chastity to carry on as he walks over to the boys and asks them to follow him outside. They do so reluctantly, with dragging feet, and badly disguised sneers Credence does his best to ignore. It is not hard, he has had lots of practice at ignoring scorn and insults thrown his way. It may actually be the one thing he is good at.

“Whaddya want, Barebone?” asks the older of the two. Heavy set and with a distinctly unattractive spotty face, Adam Molkovich is the type of kid that would have made Credence’s live a living Hell if he had been older and tall enough to reach above Credence’s chest. He still does quite a good job of it already, even with the constraints given by his age and height.

“Ma wouldn’t like you talking about such things in the church” Credence replies, doing his best to sound calm and imposing, and failing miserably on both accounts. Adam barely reaches his chest, but he still manages to stare down at him in contempt quite effectively.

“And who’s gonna tell her, huh?” Adam replies, full of braggadocio and arrogance “You?”

“God will know” Credence quietly recites, looking at his shoes, because it is what Ma would say. Personally, he thinks God, if he indeed exists, must have better things to do than to listen in on the fantastic tales of two street rats.

“God ain’t shit” the other boy snaps, spitting at the ground at Credence’s feet to properly show his disdain.

“Ma will ban you from the Church” Credence says, hoping that a threat against their steady source of food may prove more effective than the promise of divine retribution.

“Ha! Then I’ll summon the Great Satan and ask him to give me food, instead” the boy replies.

“Don’t be stupid!” Adam admonishes him, elbowing him in the ribs “You’d have to sell your soul in exchange”

“Who cares? I bet the Devil cooks real nice food” the boy complains, nursing his side and throwing Credence a nasty glare, as if he had been the one to hit him.

“You can’t summon the Devil” Credence scoffs at them “That’s just a silly story Billie made up to scare the little ones”

It is one silly story he would be more than glad to see the back off. He is quite tired of cleaning up messily drawn pentagrams from the streets around the church left by children’s pitiful attempts at summoning the King of Hell.

“It’s not!” Adam hotly protests “You just need to draw the right sigils, and do it on the night of Halloween”

“Halloween…?”

“It’s when the spirits come into our world” Adam explains, arms crossed in front of his chest and voice absolutely dripping with condescension “That’s when magical spells work best, you know”

Credence frowns at him, mouth already opening and ready to protest such claims, when he sees a look of absolute, naked horror fall across Adam’s face. Credence feels his own blood turn to ice inside his veins, painfully aware of what may have been inspired such terror.

“I thought I had made it clear that I would not accept talk of such… abominations in the House of the Lord” Ma says from behind him, voice deceptively soft and calm.

Credence feels a shiver of pure, unadulterated fear go up his spine, as his hands clench spasmodically by his side. The lashings from Thursday have yet to fade, the wounds still red and angry all over his palms. A pitiful whimper escapes through his lips at the prospect of taking even more lashes over his barely healed wounds.

Before him, Adam and his friend’s faces have gone bone white, as they both gap unattractively at Ma, no doubt trying to come up with an explanation for breaking the sanctity of her church.

“Off with you two,” she hisses, advancing to stand next to Credence “and I better not see you around again, you heretic philistines” He does not dare look, keeping his head bowed and shoulders hunched, as he hears, more than sees the two boys scampering off. Next to him, Ma sighs. He flinches, even at that inoffensive, small noise.

“Credence” she says, gracefully extending her hand, palm up, in front of him.

“I- I wa-was telling them no-not t-to-” Credence stutters. His palms sting, as he hides them behind his back. He bows his head even further, shoulders locking up above his ears, the back of his neck displayed in an act of desperate submission.

“Your belt, Credence” Ma says, motioning with her hand “Give it to me”

He unlocks the buckle with trembling fingers, eyes fixed on the ground as he sneaks the worn leather through the loops. He dares to briefly raise his eyes when he deposits the belt in Ma’s waiting hand. Her face is a carefully expressionless mask, mouth a thin, bland line, and eyes as cold as ice, betraying nothing. Credence immediately lowers his gaze again, screwing his eyes shut and bracing for the pain.

He does not need to wait long. Ma is as brutal as she is methodical, and by the time she finishes both his hands and his back are bathed in red, as he kneels in the wet, dirty pavement. He can even taste blood in his mouth, from when her hand slipped and the buckle hit him across the lips.

 

***

 

The next morning he makes it as far as the Woolworth building before his legs give out on him and he collapses in a side alley. His back throbs, his scratchy shirt rough against the tender, open, flesh. Blood has started to dry, making the garment stick uncomfortably in some places, and pull at the barely scabbed wounds when he moves. The pamphlets in his hands are tinted red around the edges.

The alley is dirty and, like most of New York’s streets, smells strongly of garbage and piss, but it is safeguarded from the biting wind so Credence will take it. As he tries to readjust himself into a more comfortable position, one that will not have the rough brick of the wall pressing against his scarred back, his eyes fall on an abandoned stick of chalk in front of him.

Billie Johnson’s tale immediately comes to his mind. _If you draw a pentagram on the floor, and say the Devil’s name three times, he will appear and grant you three wishes._ It is nothing but a silly story, Credence knows that, he has heard many similar tales before, whispered among poor street kids with a bittersweet mix of longing and disbelief. If only all their problems could be solved with a simple magical spell. No, Credence knows better. There are no wishmakers, no magical shortcuts to life, not for wicked, foolish boys like him.

But it is cold, his back hurts, and he is desperately hungry, having been forced to fast to ‘expel the wickedness from his body’. Dark spots dance in front of his eyes, from pain or hunger, he is not quite sure which, and his head feels as if it were filled with cotton, his thoughts slow and dense as molasses. He will blame the pain for this, he decides, when he later comes to his senses and realises the stupidity of his actions.

He grabs the chalk stick. His fingers tremble when he struggles to secure his grip, blood staining the white powdery chalk, as he draws a messy, half-crooked pentagram into the dirty pavement.

“Lucifer” he whispers, feeling incredibly self-conscious, eyes darting quickly to the alley entrance, in case someone happened to walk in to witness his foolishness “Lucifer. Lucifer” he repeats, feeling more stupid every time.

Nothing happens. The wind howls loudly, rustling some old newspapers strewn across the side alley, something that may be a rat, squeaks, and scurries away between the garbage. His fingers cramp terribly, and his back hurts just the same. He does not even have the energy to feel disappointed, so he just closes his eyes and reclines back against the wall.

A loud crack resonates within the alley, startling Credence and making him open his eyes in surprise.

A man now stands over his poorly drawn pentagram. Tall and imposing, dressed in a long, perfectly tailored, black coat, with slicked back, dark hair, and a pair of heavy eyebrows set on the most attractive face Credence has ever seen. He does not seem even slightly surprised at having been summoned, giving the alley a quick, cursory look, before his dark eyes set on Credence. Something that may be annoyance flashes then across his face, and he raises a hand in an almost indolent gesture towards Credence.

The resulting bright flash seems to catch both the man and Credence by surprise. Credence backs himself further against the wall, mindless of the sharp pain as the jagged brick lines press into his open wounds. The man stares at the empty space where the flash occurred with a mix of surprise and indignation, before his gaze swivels to Credence, anger clear on the dark line of his brows, as they lower dangerously over his dark eyes.

“Now, who may you be?” he asks, advancing towards Credence, and taking a long, black wand from within the folds of his coat.

Credence starts to raise his arms, in a desperate, probably useless, attempt at self-defense, when the man seems to to smack into an invisible wall. He staggers back, looking confused, before he charges forth again, this time with more force, and is blasted back just as hard, falling on his ass in the middle of the pentagram, his fancy cloak strewn around him. He looks incredibly confused.

“What the fuck?” he barks outs, glaring at the invisible wall. He waves his wand, a quick, sharp motion that sends streak of red light towards Credence, only for it to dissolve in another flash the moment it passes over the edge of the pentagram’s circle.

Feeling more or less, reliably protected from the man - demon? - he has just summoned, Credence pushes himself to his feet, staggering only slightly at a sudden flash of nausea. According to Billie Johnson, he gets three wishes. He plans to use them wisely.

“How does it work?” he tentatively asks, taking just one cautious step closer to the edge of the pentagram. The Devil is deceitful, Credence knows that, he will no doubt try to trick him into misusing his wishes is he is not careful “Sir” he adds, after a few beats, figuring some polite flattery will probably help.

“How does what work?” The demon growls as he gets to his feet, fastidiously brushing out the dirt from his coat.

Credence frowns, confused. Billie’s tales had never mentioned what to do if the summoned demon was not familiar with the proceedings. He shuffles awkwardly in place, it would be just his luck to get the one clueless demon in all of Satan’s court to answer his summons.

“The wishes, Sir” he elaborates, carefully keeping his face blank and his attitude properly deferential.

The demon just stares blankly at him, one eyebrow raised in an elegant arch “The wishes” he repeats, voice flat.

Credence nods slowly. Definitely the clueless one. He will need to stay calm, be patient and respectful, if he wants to get his wishes’ worth.

“So, do I just state them, or-?” Credence starts to ask, but trails off slowly as he quickly realises the demon’s attention is focused elsewhere.

Far from listening to his demands, the demon is now glancing behind his back, eyebrows furrowed in annoyance, as he scrutinises every dirty corner of the alley. He holds his wand in a tense grip, knuckles white, and tip raised and ready. When he finishes his inspections he turns to glare at Credence once again, his coat flaring behind him in an elegant and dramatic swish.

“Ok, I’ll bite,” he says, sounding increasingly irritated “you got me trapped. Good job. Now release me and let’s get this silly joke done and over with”

“Joke?” Credence asks, affronted. He may not be a powerful and beautiful witch, and his pentagram may be crude and amateurish, but none of that gives any justification to the demon to label him a ‘joke’. The nerve of him “This is not a _joke_. I want my wishes”

The demon’s face goes through a variety of confused and aggravated expressions, he even opens his mouth a few times, as if wanting to say something, before he pinches his brow, closes his eyes and starts muttering angrily under his breath. He sounds pretty cross.

Credence steels himself, watching warily how the demon starts pacing his invisible cell like an angry beast. He wishes Billie’s tales had elaborated a bit more on the technicalities of the whole wish-asking protocol, because he is, honestly, quite lost, and his summoned demon does not seem much inclined to help.

“Look,” the demon says, pausing in his pacing and turning his gaze on Credence ones again “I, quite simply, don’t have the time to be mucking around like this. Break the circle and I’ll let you go on your way, no charges raised”

“No” Credence says. How stupid does this demon think he is? The circle is the only thing saving him from being dragged into the depths of Hell to live a life of servitude dedicated to the Devil.

The demon lets out an exasperated groan of frustration “Do you know who I am, boy?” he growls at him, his thick eyebrows pulled low and threatening over incensed dark eyes.

“A servant of Satan” Credence readily replies.

The demon inhales forcefully through his nose, his nostrils dilating dangerously, the edges white from rage. His eyebrow have, by now, almost merged with his eyes, and Credence can see a vein pulsing threateningly in his forehead, as his face grows a truly alarming shade of red. He has the sudden feeling he is really not going to get his wishes any time soon.

“ _Reducto_!” the demon bellows, pointing his wand at the wall. A flash of blue light emanates from the tip, only to crash, as the other spells did before, against the invisible barrier. This time, the resulting blast sends the demon crashing back against the opposite side of the barrier, which crackles loudly at the impact. He slides down to the floor in an undignified heap, the tails of his coat falling over his head, and Credence cannot repress his own weary sigh. It really seems he got stuck with the dumbest demon in all Seven Hells.

“Fuck” the demon angrily snaps. Credence emphasizes with the feeling.

“I’m not going to get my wishes, am I?” Credence asks, more to himself than anyone else.

“I would fucking say not” the demon rudely replies, throwing the tails of his coat back, and slowly raising himself back up to his full height so he can stare Credence down. He is slightly shorter, about a scant inch or so, his clothes are now rumpled and stained, and he has a half-rotten apple peel hanging of his shoulder, but he manages to pull off quite an intimidating glower all the same. Credence is appropriately cowed.

“But I did everything right. It was supposed to work. Billie said so” he protests, his words sounding pathetic and pitiful even to his own ears. Going by the blank stare the demon is throwing his way, he is equally unimpressed.

“Look, boy” the demon begins, some of the anger seems to have left him, leaving his expression looking more worn and tired than enraged. His voice, even if still a bit rough, also sounds calmer “I don’t know who this ‘Billie’ is, or what he told you to do, but I’m sure as Hell not granting any wishes, and you had better break this circle and release me before I have you brought up on charges for Assault of an Auror, and Disruption of MACUSA Apparition Areas”

Credence does not understand even half of what the demon is saying. He is starting to realise demon deals may be a way more complex than he could have possibly imagined. That, or he just managed to summon the most cantankerous demon in existence. It would just be his look, he ruefully thinks.

“Promise you won’t kill me” he tells the demon. Arguing with him about the wishes is clearly not getting him anywhere, and Credence cannot afford to dawdle for much longer, Ma will be expecting him back. The more he can hope for at this point is to get out of this whole mess without adding a vengeful demon as another box into his crappy life bingo.

“Don’t be ridiculous!” the demons snaps, looking incredibly offended. And then, when he sees Credence stumble back in bear at his brusque tone, he adds, calmer, but still clearly irritated “I’m not going to kill you. I’m not even going to arrest you. It clearly seems you were pranked as well, so I’m going to let it slip, this time”

Credence hesitates. For all rudeness and general unhelpfulness, the demon seems to, at least, be honest. He has not even tried to get him to bargain his soul away, that must count for something.

“I’m going to break this barrier sooner or later” the demon continues, sounding so very matter of fact that it unnerves Credence. None of the stories ever mentioned anything about the demons breaking through the barriers.

“It’s in your best interests to break it now that I’m feeling moderately forgiving”

His wounds hurt, a dull intermittent ache not helped in any way by the constant tension of his shoulders. He is tired,  he barely got any sleep last night, and the lack of food is seriously starting to affect him. And, to top it all off, he, quite honestly, does not have any interest in spending a second longer squabbling with a demon, not after he has turned out to be such a massive disappointment, and completely useless in helping him escape from Ma’s yoke.

So he breaks the circle. It is a decidedly anticlimactic moment. All it takes is for Credence to smush the lines with the tip of his shoe. There are no lighting flashes, no infernal flames or dark smoke, just a soft, wheezing sound, and then the demon is calmly stepping over the line. Credence gets hastily out of the way, trying to make himself look as inconspicuous as possible, lest the demon changes its mind and decides he ought to be killed for his boldness after all.

The Demon just scowls at him, a look more irritated than anything, distractedly pats him on the shoulder, and softly says “Don’t do it again, boy, no matter what Billie says, or I _will_ send the Aurors after you”

Credence nods stiffly, and watches, in trepidation, as the demon walks away.

 

***

 

Ma is already waiting for him when enters the Church. He almost does not notice her, hidden as she is by the stair’s handrail, but her voice carries clear through the empty silence of the church.

“Credence, where have you been?”

He stops, tries to school his features into his most bland and innocent expression (although he would probably settle for anything that does not scream ‘have been consorting with a demon’ too loud).

“I was looking for a place for tomorrow’s meeting” he starts “There’s a corner on 32nd street that could-” He trails off almost abruptly. Ma eyes him calmly from her seat, head tilted slightly to the side, as her cold, blue eyes seem to stare into his very soul.

“I’m sorry Ma” he apologises, bowing his head to avoid having to face her impenetrable gaze a second longer. If he did, he would undoubtedly end up vomiting all about his wicked, sinful dealings with the Devil, and the punishment he would receive for that, does not even bear thinking about “I didn’t realise it was so late” he offers as his excuse, hands already unfastening his belt.

Ma accepts it solemnly, before standing up and climbing up the stairs, confident that Credence will follow.

“Show me your hands” she instructs once she reaches the balcony on the first floor.

She patiently waits for Credence to do as she says, carefully winding the belt around her hand, measuring to make sure there is enough length left for an effective swing. Once she is satisfied, she adjust her grip, and swings back her arm, with practiced ease, to deliver her first lashing.

Credence tenses up, anticipating the harsh bite of the belt on the still tender skin of his palms, when there is a loud crack, and suddenly he is not staring at Ma but at the black clad back of a man. _A demon_ , his mind supplies, on spotting the familiar cut of the coat and the distinctive hairstyle. He does not have time to ask any questions because the demon’s sudden appearance has, obviously, also caught Ma completely by surprise and, in her panic, she twists her arm just a bit too high and the belt buckle ends up smacking the demon straight in the mouth.

For a second no one moves. Credence holds his breath as the demon staggers slightly backwards, caught off-balance by Ma’s righteous lashing, before he rights himself and in one, precise and swift move punches her in the face, instantly knocking her out cold.

“Fuck” the demon says, wiping blood of his mouth with the sleeve of his elegant coat. It leaves a red patch across the rich looking white lining.

Still in shock due to the demon’s sudden appearance, Credence simply stares at him. Some small part of his brain argues that standing there, gaping at the Servant of Hell he just offended a few hours prior, is a sure way to get himself killed or maimed, or worse. Credence pointedly ignores it, his curiosity, once again, over-riding his survival instincts.

“You’re the Second Salemer’s boy” the demon says, after taking a careful, surveying look around the church. There’s some blood smeared over his upper lip and stuck between his teeth which, together with the still open wound bisecting his lower lip, give him a distinctly threatening air.

Unsure of how to properly respond to the statement, Credence simply nods his head. He wonders if the demon has re-thought his earlier pardon upon learning of his affiliation with the Church. It would be just his luck, he bitterly thinks.

“Right” the demon says, nodding to himself. He takes another quick look around the church, his upper lip curling in distaste as he spots the pamphlets stuck to the walls, before turns his attention back to Credence “You’re her son, I gather” he asks, vaguely pointing with his head in Ma’s direction.

“Adopted” Credence promptly responds. He maybe ought to feel guilty about how quick he is to distance himself from Ma, after she took him in and raised him for years, but given how often she likes to remind him of the fact herself, he does not feel it entirely inappropriate to recognise the it.

The demon narrows his eyes at the response, taking one step close to Credence as he absently rubs his chin “Any chance you remember you parents, boy?” he asks.

“Nothing but vague memories, sir” Credence replies, unnerved by the demon’s encroaching presence in his personal space, but determined to remain as respectful and polite as possible. He does not expect a Creature of Evil to place much stock on proper manners, but it always pays to be cautious.

“I see…” the demon says, humming softly to himself. After another quick glance at Ma’s unconscious form, he adds “Well, I’ll have to ask you to come with me” and extends a hand towards Credence in a clear invitation.

“I’m not stupid” Credence declares, staring at the offered hand with barely disguised contempt.

“I never implied you were” the demon replies, attempting a charming smile that ends up falling on the wrong side of deranged, with all the blood still spread across his face. It does absolutely nothing to assuage Credence worries.

“I’m not going to let a _demon_ take me away” Credence elaborates. He _may_ have been stupid enough to summon one, but there are limits.

“A demon? What are you on about?” the demon irritatedly asks, frowning at Credence.

“I- you, uh, I summoned you,” Credence tries to explain. The demon’s impressive frown is starting to make him a bit nervous “Just like Billie said. I used the pentagram to summon a demon from Hell”

“I’m a wizard” the demon says, looking quite offended.

A witch. Ma had always said they were Servants of the Devil. Turns out she was right.

“Are you taking me to your Master, the Great Satan?” he asks.

The frown disappears from the demon’s (witch) face in an instant, his eyebrows climbing up until they almost reach the edge of his hairline. He snorts, quietly, as his face seems to go through a mix expressions, before it settles in something that could be vaguely described as mirth. It transforms his face in all the best ways, taking away the threatening aura and making his attractiveness impossible to ignore.

“You could say that” he responds, sounding decidedly amused.

Credence feels a blush bloom across his cheeks despite himself. It is extremely unfair for a Vassal of Satan to be this handsome, he thinks, stealing a quick, furtive look at the witch from beneath lowered lashes. He feels an overwhelming wave of solidarity for Eve. If the Serpent was even half as handsome as this witch, she cannot be judged for having fallen prey to his charms.

“Will you kill me?” he tentatively asks.

The wiych huffs out a dry laugh “Don’t be ridiculous” and then, when Credence bristles at his easy dismissal, he quickly adds “I just want to clear something out. There seems to have been a terrible oversight somewhere, and I hope to be able to sort it out, with your help”

A more sensible person would not be as easily swayed as Credence is by some vague reassurances and a pretty face. A more faithful Christian would have broken out the Holy Water and the Cross the moment the witch appeared. Then again, none of them would have been desperate enough to try and summon a demon in the first place. Credence’s back and hands hurt just as badly as they did earlier in the day, and he is even more tired than he was before. A minute twitch from the still unconscious Ma has him reaching out for the witch’s extended hand without further thought. Whatever awaits for him in the Realm of Hell  cannot be as bad as what Ma will do if he stays.

 

***

 

There is a pull at the bottom of his stomach, a whirlwind of colour, and then Credence is stumbling into the side alley where he first summoned the demon earlier that day. As he empties the meager contents of his stomach into the dirty pavement, he notices the circle has been removed, only a few traces of white chalk remaining as proof of its existence.

“Apparition can be rough, the first few times” the witch says, awkwardly patting him on the head “Here, to wipe your mouth” he offers Credence a white, soft-looking, and probably incredibly expensive, handkerchief.

If nothing else, it seems working for the Devil is better remunerated than doing the Work of the Lord. The handkerchief feels buttery soft against his skin, the cloth more rich than anything he has ever owned, or touched, before. It even has a delicately embroidered monogram in one corner. Credence would normally not even think of touching it, much less using it to clean his vomit, and he stares at the soiled cloth in dismay after he finishes cleaning himself, until a quick snap of the witch’s fingers quickly restores it to its previous, pristine estate.

“You can keep it, if you want” the witch offers, smiling indulgently at him.

It is not wise to accept gifts from the Devil, or its Servants, but Credence is already in far too deep to care about such details. He politely thanks the witch and meticulously folds the handkerchief into a perfect square, slipping it into his own breast pocket as the witch watches on, amused.

They leave the alley and the witch takes them to the entrance of the Woolworth building. Credence has walked past the building many times before, usually barely sparing it but a single glance. _A monument to Men’s vanity_ Ma had dismissively described it, many years ago. On closer observation, Credence can see the carved beasts all over the entry archway, almost disguised between the heavily decorated pillars, and wonders how such a blatant display of paganism could have slipped by Ma so long.

He is so distracted taking in the carvings, he does not notice the witch speaking with one of the footmen at the entrance until he is unceremoniously tugged in alongside him.

Credence had always thought of Hell as an abstract place, at best. A dark cavern filled with fire pits and the sound of screams, terrifying demons wandering around the place and some kind of Sin happening in every little corner. What he gets, instead, is something completely different.

The foyer they step into is filled with sunlight, streaming from the multiple windows in its massive walls. Elegant columns frame a grand marble staircase, atop which a golden clock seems to hover in mid-air. A multitude of surprisingly human-looking people mill around, going about their daily business, as paper cranes fly over their heads. To say this is not what he imagined Hell to look like would fall short. If Credence had ever dared to try and visualise what Heaven would look like, this would probably have been a close approximation.

The witch wastes no time, dragging Credence along by the grip on his upper arm and making him stumble slightly, as he hurries to follow, and admire his surroundings at the same time. It is not long before he notices they are attracting quite a bit of attention, passersby seem to eagerly leap out of their way, and bystanders stop what they are doing to blatantly stare at them in open curiosity. The scrutiny quickly saps out any fascination Credence may have initially felt for the place, and he hangs his head as he feels himself blush hotly in embarrassment.

They suddenly come to an stop, and Credence risks glancing up just to come face to face with the most bizarre creature he has ever seen in his life. Barely three feet high, with massive, crooked ears, and a large, pointy nose it definitely fits Credence’s previously held image for what a proper denizen of Hell ought to look like.

“Mr. Graves” it says, voice gravely and slightly irritated, as it opens an ornate, metallic door behind him, and steps inside what Credence belatedly realises must be an elevator. It is somewhat confusing to find out there are elevators in Hell, but then again, considering witches apparently wear tailored three-piece suits and the Gates of Hell are inside an office building, it does not seem so incongruous.

“Red” his witch curtly answers, stepping inside the elevator and taking Credence with him “To the Pentagram Room, if you please” he says, not even bothering to look at the creature.

The elevator lurches upwards, and Credence grabs onto his witch’s arm for support as he loses his balance. He has never ridden in an elevator before, and he finds the experience wholly unpleasant, although still better than whatever obscure method of transportation the witch used to take them into the side alley a few moments ago.

Thankfully, it does not last long, and they soon step off, the witch leading Credence through a maze of corridors and bridges until they get to a set of heavy, wooden doors. Two men stand in front of them, both wearing long, leather trench coats, and eyeing Credence with open suspicion.

“Mr. Graves” the one on the left greets them, with a small bow of his head.

“Morris” his witch responds “Is she busy?”

“No, sir” Morris responds, and is that not a woefully ordinary name for a witch, Credence muses.

“Good” his witch says, letting go of Credence’s arm and pushing the wooden door open “Get Goldstein for me”

“Yes, sir” Morris agrees and immediately dashes off.

Credence watches him go, nervously realising his witch - Mr. Graves, as both Morris and the elevator monster had called him - must be quite high up in Hell’s hierarchy. He has half a moment to panic and consider running away, when Mr. Graves grabs his arm again and drags him into the room.

The first thing Credence notices, right after the door closes behind him with an ominous slam, is the large pentagram circle embedded on the floor. He swallows thickly, a cold sweat breaking across the back of his neck, as he slowly raises his gaze towards the rest of the room. Rows of elegant, wooden chairs run across both side walls, and in front of him, sitting in an elevated dais, there is a golden throne topped with an ornate canopy, red, velvet curtains hanging from it. The Prince of Darkness’ throne chamber, Credence realises in dismay.

Lucifer himself sits on the throne, taking on the guise of a beautiful dark-skinned woman. Her dress, a deep sapphire blue is richly decorated with golden thread, to match her imposing headdress. She exudes power and authority from each and everyone of her pores, and as she graciously stands up, Credence hurriedly lowers his gaze once again, too afraid to face the Serpent of Old head on.

Fear claws at his throat, twists within his belly, cold, and bitter, as Mr. Graves addresses the King of the Bottomless Pit. He does not even hear what they say, the blood pounding in his ears effectively deafening all other sounds. He should have stayed at the Church, he frantically thinks, eyes resolutely fixed on the dark lines of the five pronged star on the floor. If he were not such a foolish, greedy boy he would have never gotten himself into such a mess. Ma was right to warn them against the Devil and their seducing words, one handsome face, a pretty smile, and Credence followed a witch into the Depths of Hell itself.

“What’s your name, boy?” Lucifer asks, voice soft and musical, yet filled with undeniable authority.

“C-Cre-Credence Barebone, Sir” he stutters out, still staring at his feet.

“Barebone, huh” she says, as if recognising the name. She probably does, Credence realises, Ma’s family has been fighting the Forces of Evil for centuries now, or at least so she claims.

“Do you know who I am, Mr. Barebone?” she asks.

“The Great Satan, Lord of Hell” Credence promptly answers.

A blank, uncomfortable silence greets his words. Credence fidgets nervously, wondering if he has somehow managed to offend the Devil. he is not sure what titles she prefers to go by. Maybe he should have called her‘Lucifer’? ‘King of Hell’? Queen, going her current appearance? He is so underprepared for this.

Before he can work himself up into a proper anxiety attack, the silence is broken by an amused chuckle from Mr. Graves. Credence turns to look at him in surprise, to see the man awkwardly trying to cover it up by coughing into his hand.

“You think I’m the Devil” Satan says, with something akin to disbelief coloring her words.

Credence risks another quick look at her, flushing when he catches her penetrating stare. Next to him, Mr. Graves’ snickers are barely muffled by the sleeve of his coat.

“I’m sorry” he says, looking anything but.

Lucifer glares at him “Did you explain anything to the boy, Percy?” she asks the witch “Or did you just abduct him from his home with no explanation whatsoever the moment you realised?”

Mr. Graves coughs awkwardly into his hand “There wasn’t much time. I was in a hurry, Sera, for someone to go unidentified for so long, and living with the Second Salemers, no less, I couldn’t risk discovery, or upsetting him too much”

“He thinks he is in Hell, Percy” the woman Credence is now not so sure is actually Lucifer snaps “I would say he is plenty upset already”

“He was fine coming in” Mr. Graves protests.

“You have all the emotional sensibility of a boiled potato” the woman says before turning to Credence. Her eyes visibly soften as she looks at him, and Credence finally dares to meet her gaze. She looks kind, if a bit stern, nothing like he would have expected a Lord of Evil to look like.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Barebone,” she starts “I’m afraid Mr. Graves does not always handle matters with the adequate level of sensitivity, even if his intentions are good”

Her speech is interrupted by another woman entering the chamber. As tall as Credence, with short, brown hair, and an apprehensive look in her face.

“You called for me, Mr. Graves?” she asks, looking almost as nervous as Credence is to be in the chamber. He feels an immediate sense of kinship with her, glad to no longer be the only person in the room who has no idea what is going on.

“I did, Tina, thank you for coming so quickly” Mr. Graves says, smiling warmly at her as she approaches “You have been working the Second Salemers case, these last few weeks, if I’m not mistaken”

“Yes, Sir” Miss Tina says.

“You recognise the boy then, right?” Mr. Graves asks,  pointing at Credence with a slight tip of his head.

“I- Of course” Miss Tina quickly agrees the moment she sees him “Mary Lou Barebone’s oldest son, Credence. Excuse me, Sir, but what is he doing here-?”

“And,” Mr. Graves interrupts her “did you, at any time during your investigation, think Mr. Barebone here could have any vestiges of magic?”

“Magic?” Miss Tina asks, tilting her head slightly to the side.

 _Magic?_ Credence thinks, trying his best not hyperventilate.

“We have reason to believe Mr. Barebone may be an unidentified wizard” Mr. Graves says.

“I’m not!” Credence exclaims. He does not know if being a witch is a worse offence than summoning a demon in Ma’s book, but he is not keen to find out “I can’t be. I’m, I’m just-”

Just Credence. Plain, stupid Credence Barebone, who really should have known better than to try and play with Forces out of his control.

“Hey, it’s okay” Miss Tina says, tentatively putting a hand on his shoulder and slowly guiding him to sit down on one of the benches “I imagine it must be quite the shocking revelation” she adds, softly petting his hair.

That is putting it mildly.

Thankfully for him, once Miss Tina is made aware of the situation, she kindly explains everything to Credence.

The summoning circle he drew on the alley is actually a containment circle, used to apprehend criminals. Mr. Graves was unlucky enough to apparate straight into it, effectively trapping himself until Credence agreed to release him.

(“And you didn’t report the incident right away, because…?” the dark-skinned woman asks.

“I thought he was just some random kid trying to prank employees as they made their way to work” Mr. Graves snappily replies.

“I thought you were a demon” Credence mutters, feeling absolutely mortified)

Once Mr. Graves was released, that should have been it. However, it seems Credence had managed to, somehow, botch up the containment spell (because, of course he did, he is as clumsy at witchery as he is at prayer), and ended up summoning Mr. Graves to him later on the day. That was when Mr. Graves realised he was not some random witch kid prankster, and decided to bring him into MACUSA for further investigation.

“MACUSA stands for Magical Congress of the United States of America” Miss Tina explains to a completely flummoxed Credence, as Mr. Graves and the other woman keep bickering on the background about the proper briefing protocols for bringing new witches into their world.

“You are all witches” Credence says, trying to digest the information. The whole building is filled with witches. Only God knows how many must roam the city!

“Well, technically, Mr. Graves is a wizard” Miss Tina says “As are you”

“I’m not a wizard” Credence automatically says, because it is one thing to accept witches are real, walking among us, and, apparently, incredibly well-organised, and a completely different one to accept he is one of them.

Except, as it turns out, he is indeed a wizard. Has always been. Magic, according to Miss Tina, usually manifests in children before they are ten, at which point they are formally registered with MACUSA and invited to attend Ilvermorny, a Magical School. Pending a check at the Registry, Miss Tina confesses the most likely case for his late discovery is that Ma intercepted his invitation letter.

“That, and the Registry are useless” Mr. Graves pipes up, earning himself a glare from the other woman.

“Point is,” Miss Tina continues, with a weary sigh “now you can finally leave that awful woman and take your rightful place in the Wizarding World”

It sounds strange. _His rightful place_. For Credence, who has only ever fit awkwardly, if he fit at all, that sounds more tempting than anything the Devil may have been able to offer. 

 

***

 

They give him his own room. A spacious, clean and comfortable ensuite in a hotel not two blocks away from the Woolworth building. Miss Tina takes him there, cheerfully chatting a mile an hour about his upcoming entrance into Wizarding Society. From her, he learns that Mr. Graves, who he wrongly imprisoned in an alley and got whipped in the face by Ma, is actually MACUSA’s Director of Magical Security, and Tina’s boss.

“I’m an Auror” she proudly tells him “We are the Wizarding equivalent of no-maj police”

Which basically means Credence started his tenancy in the Wizarding World by imprisoning the Head Cop. Not the most favorable of starts, but at least it cannot hardly get worse, he reassures himself. And then Miss Tina tells him the woman he met is actually the Wizarding President, Seraphina Picquery.

“I called her Satan” Credence wails in despair, wringing his hands. No wonder she had been offended!

“She probably doesn’t mind” Miss Tina reassures him “Mr. Graves has called her far worse things behind her back and, I imagine, to her face”

It is not a very solid reassurance, but Credence will take it. President Picquery had not hexed him on the spot, as she probably could have, and has even offered to fund the costs for his adaptation into the Wizarding World, an incredibly generous offer far beyond Credence’s humble expectations.

Miss Tina checks him in at the hotel and calmly walks him through his room, showing him how the magical appliances work, from the self-boiling teakettle, to the room service menu. It’s just a temporary arrangement she says, when she spots him hovering uncomfortably by the door, once he gets a job he will be able to move to his own flat. The thought of owning his own flat boggles Credence’s mind almost as much as knowing he has Magic does.

The whole thing is pretty shocking, to be fair, Magic aside. He has his own room, and Miss Tina has promised to help him go shopping for clothes later in the week. And a wand, she adds with an impish smile, one cannot be a proper wizard without. Food, hot, decadent-looking, food appears on the table barely ten minutes after Miss Tina places the order via talking to a Magic piece of paper, and from what he has seen of the bathroom, it has hot running water.

It is too much, which is why, once Credence is finally left alone in his room, staring at the moving painting hanging in the wall in front of him, he has himself a nice panic attack.

 

***

 

The resounding crack startles him enough to pause his sobbing and glance up from his crumpled spot on the floor.

Mr. Graves stands in the middle of the room, wearing nothing but silk pyjama pants and a thick, burgundy robe, loosely tied at the waist. He is holding an empty tumbler in one hand, and a bottle filled with an amber colored liquid in the other. He blinks slowly, taking in his new surroundings with a vaguely annoyed expression, before he spots Credence crouched down next to the love seat.

“Well, this is gonna be awfully inconvenient, isn’t it?” he quips, raising a playful eyebrow.

Credence chokes on a sob.

At hearing the sound, and taking a second, closer look at Credence’s tear stricken face, Mr. Graves’ expression instantly changes from playful annoyance to one of concern. He approaches Credence with caution and crouches down in front of him, not minding his expensive silk pants dragging across the floors.

“Hey…” he starts, brows furrowed and a hand hovering hesitantly over Credence’s head “You okay?” he asks, voice tinged with worry.

The soft tone of his voice just makes Credence sob harder. He cannot seem to help himself, being magic has not made him any stronger.

Mr. Graves looks at him in distress, before he finally reaches over with his hand and awkwardly pats him on the head. It is a far cry from Miss Tina’s solid, reassuring touch, the caress more clumsy than affectionate, but Credence can still feel the panic slowly start to abate.

“I’m sorry” he manages to choke out after a while, when his throat does not feel like it is closing in on itself anymore.

“Nonsense” Mr. Graves replies, stopping his petting to sit himself next to Credence, long legs spread out before him, and robe gaping open at the chest “After the day you’ve had it’s a wonder you didn’t crack before”

Credence nods, taking a shaky breath, and releasing it in a broken gust of wind. The pressure on his chest eases, bit by bit, as does the trembling on his hands. Mr. Graves is warm and solid next to him, their shoulders  touching each other as they both lean against the wall. Although he will probably feel embarrassed about it later, he is glad Mr. Graves is here with him now.

“I find a good drink always helps” Mr. Graves says. The bottle and tumbler he was carrying when he appeared smoothly sail over the air into his extended hand. He grabs them expertly and quickly pours two fingers before handing it over to Credence.

“I thought alcohol was illegal” Credence says the moment he gets a sniff of the contents.

“Only for no-majs. One of the many perks of being a wizard” Mr. Graves says with a smile.

Credence blushes as he musters a watery smile of his own. More relaxed, he takes a careful sip of the drink. Strong and dry, it burns as it goes down his throat. He is not quite sure he likes it, but it makes a nice distraction from Mr. Graves’ soft smiling face, and the way his robe has almost all but fallen open by now, displaying a strong chest, covered in wiry, black hair.

“Careful there!” Mr. Graves laughs, as Credence takes a longer drink.

He stays with him until the trembling has completely disappeared from his hands, and his breathing has evened out. He does not say much, mostly just sits next to Credence, a strong and solid presence, and then helps him up and into the bed when his eyelids start to drop. By the time Credence wakes up the next morning, he is gone, the bottle of whisky on his bedside table the only remain of his presence.

 

***

 

It keeps happening.

His first time in Dragon Avenue he is just starting to get a bit overwhelmed by all the strange people, when Mr. Graves pops into existence next to him, badly starting a witch who had just been passing by and making her drop all her groceries. He kindly walks Credence to the _Black Cat Café_ , where he is set to be meeting Miss Tina and her sister to go shopping, and sits down with him while they wait for the Goldsteins to make their appearance. He even pays for Credence’s coffee and cake.

He shows up for Credence’s wand choosing as well, plopping right into the store, as Credence is well in the way to have a proper meltdown over his complete lack of compatibility with Mr. Jonker’s wands. With him there, it takes Credence but a few more, thankfully accident-less tries, until he finds a fitting one.

The home visits remain the most common. Even after Credence finally moves into his own private flat, a small bedsit in the Lower East Side that Miss Queenie found for him, he is still haunted by the odd panic or anxiety attack, and more than a few nightmares.

It has to be said, Mr. Graves takes being summoned in the small hours of the morning surprisingly well. Given than more often than not he shows up still in shirtsleeves, Credence has started to fear the man’s sleeping patterns may be even worse than his own. It is not long before Mr. Graves has his own toothbrush in the flat, as well as a few shirts, and a throw he uses as a blanket whenever he falls asleep on Credence’s poor excuse of a sofa.

Every time Credence is in distress, worried or in pain, his magic will summon Mr. Graves by his side. A side-effect of his amateur containment circle spell, Mr. Graves hypothesizes the third time it happens, one that, if they are lucky, will just go away on its own. In the meantime, Mr. Graves’ visits become a regular staple of Credence’s new life.

In a sense, it is like having his own Guardian Angel, except for the fact that the things Credence would like to do to Mr. Graves (or have Mr. Graves do to him) probably have no place in the Bible.

It is… nice. Definitely helpful.

 

***

 

For all the Credence loves the Wizarding World more and more everyday, there are a few things that he could definitely do without. Chief amongst them is his new boss, Mr. Abernathy.

Now, Credence has no complaints about his job at Wand Registry, as monotonous and uninspired as it may be. While it is true that it cannot compare to the excitement of Miss Tina’s Auror job, or the prestige and power of Mr. Graves’ role as Director, it is a fine job. It takes place indoors, for one, and it involves far less awkward social interactions than handing out pamphlets heralding the End of Times. Given that he is completely inexperienced at even the most basic charms and spells, he is glad he has a job at all.

Plenty aware of his limitations, Credence makes sure to always give his best. He is at his desk an hour earlier than everyone, and leaves more than two hours later. He checks, and re-cheks, each application he submits, always makes sure to keep his writing clear and easy to read, and keeps his desk absolutely pristine (unlike the large majority of his co-workers, whose desks closely resemble a trash dump more than a working space).

Still, none of that seems to matter to Mr. Abernathy, who protested his appointment from the very first day, and is adamant on measuring him up against some invisible, unachievable standard that does not seem apply to anyone else. Sometimes it even looks as if Mr. Abernathy makes new rules and procedures up on the spot just so that he can accuse Credence of breaking them. His snide comments and reprimands are mostly nothing but petty remarks and empty threats that sound positively mild when compared with Mary Lou’s promises of Hellfire and Eternal Damnation, usually accompanied by severe beatings, starvation or extra chores. They should not get to Credence, not now that he finally has friends in the form of the Goldsteins and Mr. Graves to support and be there for him.

But, sometimes Mr. Abernathy, in a stroke of inspired viciousness, will manage to land a hit, and Credence will be instantly transported back to the Church, to Mary Lou’s lashings and the paralyzing fear that sized his limbs each time she thought him at fault for something.

This is one of those times.

A permit was filed in the wrong cabinet. It does not matter much who actually did the filing, or why the error was made, since Mr. Abernathy has already decided the blame should lie squarely on Credence’s shoulders. He is really going for it today as well, shouting at Credence in full sight of the whole office, red in the face and sending spit flying with every word. The whole department is watching. Credence has never felt so embarrassed and humiliated since he escaped from Mary Lou. His face is burning, tears gathering at the corner of his eyes, threatening to spill at any moment, and his hands are trembling.

Just as a sob brokenly makes its way up his throat, there is a loud, popping, sound behind him. The shouting abruptly stops. A shocked silence seems to fall across the whole floor, disturbed only by Credence’s sniffling.

“Mr. Graves” Mr. Abernathy stammers out, in a half-strangled, high-pitched voice “I- I- That’s- what a surprise, Sir”

“Mr. Abernathy” Mr. Graves’ says from behind Credence, voice as hard as a slab of granite  “Mr. Barebone and I are were meant to meet for lunch 20 minutes ago, now, if you are done shouting at him in front of your whole department, I would rather like it if we could get going. I would hate to lose our reservation”

Credence cannot see Mr. Graves from where he is sitting, but if the way Mr. Abernathy’s face goes bone white, and his pupils dilate in sheer terror, are any indication, he must be fixing Mr. Abernathy with his most terrifying glare, the one where his eyebrows almost converge as they furrow in the middle of his forehead, and his eyes blaze with fury from underneath their shadow.

“O-of course, Sir” Mr. Abernathy says, sounding obsequiously meek, as he quickly backs away, hands rigidly clasped behind his back, and offering a small, stilted bow in Mr. Graves’ direction “I hope you both have a nice meal”

 

***

 

Since there never was any lunch date, or accompanying restaurant reservation, Credence pretty much expects Mr. Graves to take him up to his office, ask his secretary to buy him a sandwich, and proceed to ignore him while he goes back to his paperwork. He has done it before. When Tina got detained because of a case a few weeks back, and Credence was left anxiously waiting for her in front of the Hot Dog stand, convincing himself being stood up was his fault for being such terrible company, Mr. Graves showed up, paid for the Hot Dogs, and let Credence eat his in his office while they both waited for Tina to report back.

(Tina looked a bit confused, if still relieved, to find Credence in Mr. Graves’s office, but was quickly distracted by the free Hot Dog Mr. Graves had bought for her)

This time, though, Mr. Graves leads Credence through the Main Lobby and out of Woolworth building, a discreet hand on the small of his back. They promptly turn into a side alley, the same one where they first met, before Mr. Graves disapparates them both out of Lower Manhattan and straight into the Upper East Side. Credence does not have a chance to ask about their whereabouts before Mr. Graves is knocking on the massive doors of an old, rich-looking, mansion.

The door opens to reveal a petite, black woman in a rich, extravagant dress that clearly identifies her as a witch.

“Mr. Graves!” she exclaims upon spotting him “We weren’t expecting you. Do you have a reservation?”

“I’m afraid this was a spur of the moment decision, Beatrice” Mr. Graves calmly responds “Do you have a spare table you could fit us in?”

Miss Beatrice squints her eyes at him, pursing her lips, before she switches her penetrating gaze to Credence, who promptly shrinks into himself at the scrutiny. She must like what she sees, because the next moment she is beaming up at Mr. Graves and inviting them inside.

“We’ll scrunge up something for you and your lovely friend, Director” she says, winking suggestively at Mr. Graves “I think we may have a spare private room you could use”

Credence wants to point out there is no need for a private room. This is hardly a date, after all. He tries to catch Mr. Graves’ eye, hoping he will graciously correct Miss Beatrice’s assumptions, but Mr. Graves studiously avoids his gaze, keeping his eyes fixed on Miss Beatrice’s back as she leads them through the main dining room and into a small, enclosed area at the back. There is no door, but it still offers a more private atmosphere than any of the tables in the main dining area. It is a table meant for discreet meetings between business partners or couples, of which Credence and Mr. Graves are either, no matter how much Credence wishes the latter were true.

Lunch is a stilted, awkward affair.

Credence is all too aware of the curious looks Miss Beatrice and the waiters keep sending their way, obviously interested in who they assume is Director Graves’ new lover. He can feel a furious blush burning across the bridge of his nose and the top of his cheeks for the whole duration of the meal. The restaurant ambiance does nothing for his nerves either, ostentatious and overly formal, Credence feels woefully out of place in his cheap, ill-fitting suit, and has trouble understanding most of the items on the menu and half the cutlery.

Usually, in situations like this, when Credence is feeling too overwhelmed or anxious, Mr. Graves is fast to reassure him, a small pat on the back, a casual arm around his shoulders, some quick, whispered words of encouragement in his ear. That is not the case today. Mr. Graves is obviously feeling as uncomfortable as Credence, if not more. He keeps fidgeting with his napkin, folding and unfolding it over his lap, and seems incapable of looking Credence in the eyes, his gaze swiftly darting away and back to his plate each time Credence catches him looking.

Conversation is brief and mundane, neither of them seemingly able to come up with a decent topic of discussions, a drastic, unwelcome change from their usual dynamic that Credence does not care much for. As such, he is almost glad when Mr. Graves asks for the bill and it is time for them to go.

Mr. Graves offers to walk him back to his desk, and despite the remaining awkwardness between them, and it being a completely pointless, if galant, gesture, Credence finds himself unable to refuse.

They do not speak on the elevator, both of them steadily staring ahead and pointedly ignoring Red’s questioning looks. Once they are alone, walking through the intricate maze that are most of the lower floors at MACUSA, Mr. Graves opens his mouth, as if to speak, several times, but ends up thinking better of it and closing it back again. Finally, he seems to gather enough courage and stops walking, grabbing Credence arm to make him pause as well.

“I didn’t know Abernathy treated you like this” Mr. Graves says, frowning down at his shoes, his mouth curled in annoyance.

Credence shrugs. He does not like to discuss Mr. Abernathy or his crusade against him. He tries to avoid even thinking about him when he is not in the office.

“I could help you find something else” Mr. Graves says, running a hand over his hair and messing it up from its neat style in the process “Anita has been searching for a secretary for a while now, I’m sure if I put in a good word she would take you. She’s a nice woman, I doubt she would ever make you upset”

Ah. So this is what it was all about. Mr. Graves has tired of being summoned to Credence’s side to sort out his troubles every time he gets upset.

“I don’t need for you to set up a pity job for me where I can be coddled” Credence snaps, surprising himself at the bitterness in his tone.

“That’s not what I-”

“I won’t let Mr. Abernathy get to me so much in the future” Credence carries on. He has no right to be angry at Mr. Graves, who has been nothing but helpful and accommodating to him ever since he helped him through that first panic attack, but anger colours his words all the same. His meetings with Mr. Graves remain the highlight of his life, and the knowledge that that feeling is not equally reciprocated stings more than it should “You won’t need to worry about being summoned during important meetings, o when you are back at home because of me. I know I’ve been nothing but a burden to you so far, Mr. Graves, but I swear I’m gonna-”

His angry tirade is swiftly interrupted by the press of warm lips against his own. It is a quick kiss, barely more than three seconds of Mr. Graves dry, chapped lips pressing into his, as Credence is too stunned to properly react. It is still enough to send his heart into a mad gallop and fill his brain with nothing but static. His entire World begins and ends at the single point of contact between their lips. He lets out a soft, pathetic whimper when Mr. Graves pulls away.

“You are not a burden” Mr. Graves says, looking deep into his eyes, words full of conviction IThe Cursebreaker department gave the me the counterspell for this weeks ago. I have yet to use it because I’m a selfish, foolish, old man who can’t bear the thought of no longer having an excuse to see you”

Credence cannot look away from Mr. Graves’ mouth. He finds himself completely entranced by the way his lips curve and straighten as they form different words, even as he stops paying attention to the words themselves. His lips still tingle from the earlier kiss and it seems like the most natural thing to lean in again, slightly angling his head, to press his mouth to Mr. Graves’ for a second time.

And a third.

By the time he initiates his fourth kiss, eager and completely inexperienced, a strong arm sneaks itself around his waist, pushing him against Mr. Graves’ strong chest, as a hand comes to cradle the back of his head, holding it in place as Mr. Graves surges against him, lips hot and demanding as they move insistently over Credence own. There is no hesitation in the kiss, and Credence happily loses himself in it.

_If you draw a pentagram on the floor, and say the Devil’s name three times, he will appear and grant you three wishes._

Mr. Graves may not have been the Devil, but he ended up fulfilling Credence’s wishes all the same. A place to belong. True friends to treasure. Someone to love.

Who would have known Billie Johnson’s tale would turn out to be right.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! 
> 
> If you liked it, please leave a comment, I'm a slut for feedback and will be eternally grateful for every word :)
> 
> (Random fact: the working title for this was "Credence Barebone and the Great Wicthly Court of Satan" and I would have used it as the actual title if it hadn't been too long)


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